CHAPTER EIGHT
—Aphrodite—
They don't see what I see.
They see Duncan Moretti—the billionaire with a cold gaze, razor-cut jawline, and a reputation as sharp as his suits. They see a man who bends cities to his will, whose name cracks across boardrooms like thunder. A man who doesn't kneel for anyone.
But I do see it.
The truth.
The need.
The cracks.
And now… I want to split him wide open.
Because power tastes better when it's taken from someone who thought he'd never give it.
---
The morning after he worshiped me with his mouth and fell asleep like a sinner who found God, I rose first.
I stood in the bathroom doorway watching him—bare chest rising and falling, arm wrapped around the pillow like he thought I'd still be there when he woke up.
He looked peaceful.
But that wasn't the goal.
I left without a word.
No note. No perfume trail. No whisper of goodbye.
Just absence.
The first weapon.
---
I didn't call.
Didn't text.
Didn't post.
The silence itself became seductive. It made room for doubt. It made space for need. Every second I didn't reply, I could feel his hunger growing.
By nightfall, I posted a single story.
Nothing explicit.
Just the stem of a champagne glass between my fingers… resting on a man's thigh in a navy suit.
My nails red.
His hand on mine.
No tags. No caption.
Just a picture that told a thousand lies.
And none of them were about love.
They were about possession.
And loss.
And war.
---
He arrived forty minutes later.
Uninvited. Unhinged.
Pounding on my door like a man ready to break it—or break me.
I opened it slow. A silk robe, bare skin, and the kind of calm that makes men tremble.
His eyes swept over me, pupils already blown wide.
"Where the fuck were you?"
I tilted my head. "You're here now. Does it matter?"
His fists clenched.
"What was that post?"
"Which one?" I teased. "The champagne? Or the thighs?"
"Aphrodite."
His voice cracked.
I smiled.
"Come inside."
---
He stormed through the threshold like a man walking into battle.
"Are you trying to ruin me?" he hissed.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, folding my arms. "You're already ruined."
"You think this is a game?"
"It is."
"I'm not laughing."
"You're not supposed to."
He stared at me, and something inside him broke.
Not loud.
Not shattering.
But it was there.
A quiet fracture.
He crossed the room in two long strides and slammed his hands on the counter on either side of me.
"You're mine."
I tilted my head and whispered, "Then prove it."
He kissed me like he meant to tear the words from my mouth.
It wasn't passion. It was desperation. His hands roamed under my robe, gripping too tightly. His breath came in ragged bursts.
"You drive me fucking crazy."
I moaned against him.
"I know."
"You want me to lose control?"
"Yes."
He growled.
"You want me to break?"
"I want you on your knees."
---
And he dropped.
Without a fight.
Without a breath.
He dropped to his knees.
His hands gripped my thighs.
His head bowed.
A man worth billions, sinking in front of me like I was heaven.
"I can't eat. I can't sleep. I'm seeing your face in every shadow. I hear your voice when I'm alone," he rasped.
I ran my fingers through his hair.
"Then worship me."
He kissed my ankles.
Then my knees.
The inside of my thighs.
He pressed his cheek to my skin like he was seeking penance.
"I belong to you."
"Say it again."
"I belong to you, Aphrodite."
He kissed the hem of my robe.
I opened it slowly, letting it fall away.
Naked.
Golden in the lamp light.
He looked up, and I could see it in his eyes.
He didn't want me.
He needed me.
"Tell me what to do."
I smiled.
"Lay back."
He obeyed.
On the rug. Chest heaving. Eyes wide.
I climbed over him, straddling his hips, dragging my fingertips down his chest. His cock strained against his pants.
I unzipped him—slow, luxurious—and freed him.
Already hard. Already throbbing.
I licked a line down his neck, dragged my breasts over his skin, and whispered in his ear:
"You don't get to fuck me tonight. You get to worship."
He whimpered.
I kissed down his torso, stopping at his stomach.
"Tell me what I am."
"My goddess," he breathed.
"Louder."
"My goddess."
"Say you'll never touch another woman."
"I won't."
"Never look at another."
"I only see you."
I slid down, my mouth hovering just above him, hot breath making him twitch.
I didn't take him in.
I licked his inner thigh.
His hip bone.
Everywhere but where he needed.
He moaned.
"Aphrodite, please—"
"Say you're mine."
"I'm yours."
"Say it again."
"I'm fucking yours."
"Then beg."
He broke.
Right there.
Voice cracked. Chest heaving. Eyes glassy.
"Please. Please. Please, Aphrodite. I'll do anything. Just let me have you. Let me serve you. Let me feel you."
And only then did I lower my mouth and take him in.
Slow.
Deep.
I let him fall apart.
I let him cry out, hands fisting the rug, hips trembling.
And I didn't let him come.
I pulled away, licked my lips, and climbed back up his body.
"You only come when I say so."
"Yes," he panted. "Yes, goddess."
I kissed him softly.
Then slid down onto him, taking him in one slow, excruciating inch at a time.
He gasped. Shuddered.
Held on to me like I was salvation.
And I rode him until he sobbed my name.
Until he spilled inside me, face buried in my neck, whispering over and over:
"Yours. Yours. Yours."
---
We fell asleep like that.
Naked. Tangled. His head on my chest.
He slept like a man who thought he'd finally won.
But I knew better.
Because this wasn't surrender.
It was stage one.
---
In the morning, I woke before him again.
I looked at him—sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, chest still marked from where I scratched him.
He looked beautiful.
And broken.
Just the way I needed him.
I got up and padded to the kitchen. Made coffee. Poured a second cup just as he stirred.
"Morning," I said sweetly.
He blinked at me like I was a dream.
"You're still here," he whispered.
"For now."
He sat up, eyes scanning my bare legs beneath his shirt.
"I thought you'd disappear again."
"Did you want me to?"
He stood and crossed to me.
"No," he said. "But I don't deserve you."
I smiled, soft and slow.
"No," I whispered, pressing the mug into his hand. "You don't."